


The Invitation

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Hugs, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Moving In Together, Romance, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Crowley starts spending a lot more time at Aziraphale's bookshop, and Aziraphale even hopes he might move in there someday...though not without a struggle...until a bookshop break-in gone wrong just might tip the scales.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 114





	The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> While this work mildly references my earlier story, "The Easy Way", it is not necessary to read that first in order to enjoy it.

The Invitation

Aziraphale didn’t want customers in his bookshop. He didn’t really want to sell any of the precious volumes, so he would put the CLOSED sign up and refuse to answer the phone in order to keep them at bay.

Once every few weeks, however, he opened the shop and put a large sign in the window: BUYING TODAY. It was one method he used to find new stock – people flocked to bring in their old books to sell. Unfortunately, the fact the store was actually open also attracted paying customers.

Luckily, he now had Crowley to help him out. They had settled into a comfortable routine after saving the Earth from Armageddon. For some months, Crowley had been popping into the shop every day, and Aziraphale had been tutoring him on the vast world of human literary works. Having never been a reader, Crowley had finally decided to give books a try, much to Aziraphale’s astonishment and delight.

“You’ll like books,” he had told his friend when Crowley first started coming by. “They can open whole new vistas. Fabulous worlds of the imagination. Romance, mystery, conflict, magic – anything and everything lives in these pages.”

Crowley had given him one of those “ _you have got to be kidding me”_ looks that Aziraphale was well acquainted with. “You _do_ remember that I’ve been living among humans for six thousand years, right? I’m familiar with the concept of books, you idiot.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Of course I know that. And you’ve ignored books all this time. I am merely attempting to whet your appetite.”

“Yeah, well, I also spent six thousand years _living_ with romance, mystery, conflict, and magic. I didn’t need to _read_ about it as well.” He paused. “I do like movies, though. Lots of those are made from books. Same difference.”

“They’re not the same at all! Now pay attention. If you’re going to be any help in this shop, you should at least have a passing acquaintance with the stock. You should try reading at least a little in each area.”

This notion had begun not long after the averting of Armageddon. Crowley, his services no longer required by Hell, had admitted being bored, so Aziraphale offered to let him assist him at the bookshop. Mostly, he simply wanted Crowley’s company, and didn’t expect much from him, but he thought that acquiring a minimum knowledge of the books shouldn’t be that taxing. He often bought books by the dozens or even hundreds at auctions or private appraisals, and it would be nice if Crowley at least made an effort to help him put the new stock on the proper shelves.

In the end, Crowley _had_ made a bit of an effort. He had studied all of the bookshelves, and Aziraphale even spotted him taking a book down now and then to glance at a page or two. And one time he had returned from an outing to his barber to find Crowley sprawled on one of the shop armchairs, a book propped on his knees, open to midpoint.

Suffused with hope that his friend had finally discovered the true joys of reading, Aziraphale strolled over to read the title.

It was Milton’s _Paradise Lost_.

Crowley closed the book and chucked it aside. “That bloody bloke got it all wrong.”

Over the weeks, Aziraphale tried to interest Crowley in his own favorite works. Shakespeare (“ _I saw the originals, why bother?”_ ). Dickens (“ _Too many characters.”_ ). Wilde (“ _Not bad – funny plays are all right_.”). After all his efforts, Crowley wound up rejecting all the authors he favored – it turned out that he preferred lightweight tales of adventure (“ _This Sabatini fellow’s not half bad_ ”) and nonfiction works on herpetology.

At least Crowley stuck it out, and kept showing up every day, and he did a good job of keeping Aziraphale company. He had a penchant for popping off throughout the day to return with one of Aziraphale’s favorite foods, forcing him to take a break so they could sit together, eating and conversing. Much of the time Crowley simply stretched out on the shop’s one chaise longue, either reading or pretending to read, while Aziraphale worked. His mere presence felt good.

One of Crowley’s favorite tasks occurred only during the book-buying days when Aziraphale opened the shop. Most people came in with boxes of books to sell on those days and as for the remaining few – well, Crowley took care that they didn’t make any purchases. He would wander up and down the aisles, keeping each potential customer in view, and if they looked interested in a book, he slid closer to stare at them unnervingly until they dropped the book and fled. If that didn’t deter them, Crowley tried hissing at them, and if _that_ failed, he simply magicked a lot of mold onto the book pages.

Since Crowley’s arrival, Aziraphale hadn’t sold a single book, which pleased him immensely.

#

Today had been a book buying day, and a long, tiring one. As evening fell, Aziraphale showed the last customer out, turned the OPEN sign over to CLOSED, and locked the door.

“Ah,” he said as he walked over to his desk, rubbing his hands together. “That was worthwhile.” Stacks of books covered the desk top, and at least ten boxes stood round it. “I found so many good items.”

Crowley sprawled in one of the two desk chairs, a glass of wine in hand. “I like your buying days.” He grinned. “I got to frighten off a priest.”

“You didn’t.” Aziraphale had paid no attention to Crowley’s actions, so engrossed was he in buying books.  
“I did. He was looking at Dante’s _Inferno_. I did him a favor – it’s riddled with errors.” Crowley held up the wine bottle. “Going to join me?”

Aziraphale looked from the bottle to the stacks and boxes of books, feeling torn.

“You’re not going through all those tonight,” Crowley said. “Anyway, you already know what they are.”

“Yes, but, I want to look at them _again_. Things come in so quickly at times that I lose track of what I bought. This is the _fun_ part, when I get to examine them all more closely.”

“You’ve got a strange definition of ‘fun’.”

Aziraphale looked from the books to Crowley, and back again, and then sighed. He _could_ use a bit of a respite. Better to look things over in the morning with fresh eyes. “Yes, all right.”

So they had a glass or two of wine, and then they lingered over dinner at the Ritz with more wine. It was nearly midnight when Crowley dropped him off.

“Rather late,” Aziraphale said as he got out. “Why don’t you stay?”

This was another comfortable habit they’d developed over the past few months. Aziraphale had a living area at the shop – a small kitchen in the back on the ground floor, while upstairs was a large bedroom, sitting room, and full bath. While they didn’t need to sleep, both had grown accustomed over the centuries to keeping human rhythms and habits, the better to fit in.

Ever since their flirtation with death – when only Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy saved them both from extinction, they had felt a need to stay close. And on one memorable night, Aziraphale had even dared to admit his love for Crowley, who had merely smiled and said, “As if I didn’t know.”

Which led to Aziraphale asking him to stay the night. True, angels were not sexual beings, but they were loving ones, and they expressed that love in many ways, including Aziraphale’s favorite way – lying in bed together, simply resting or sleeping, in each other’s arms. He needed to feel close to Crowley. It was enough.

Naturally, his subtle plan was to get Crowley to give up his own flat and just move in – why not? They were together most of the time anyway. Though he hadn’t actually invited Crowley to move in – not directly – he hinted at it indirectly many times. Crowley pretended not to notice, or worse, made complaints about Aziraphale’s décor choices, an indirect statement of his own that they wouldn’t mesh. 

“You have drapes with flowers on them,” he said one time. “And your armchairs have little doilies on the backs.”

“They’re called antimacassars. They’re protective.”

“They’re doilies, and they’re _not_ my style.”

Despite these protestations, Aziraphale felt certain that it was only a matter of time before he finally broke Crowley down.

Until then, there were once, or twice, or thrice weekly invitations to spend the night. Crowley hadn’t refused one yet, and he didn’t now.

#

Aziraphale sat at his desk the next morning, looking through the boxes of books he’d bought. He was particularly excited by a collection of works by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle which included early editions of many Sherlock Holmes books, and there were even a few _Strand_ magazines containing the stories, though not in terribly good condition.

He had met Doyle once. He’d been curious about spiritualists and mediums throughout the centuries, wanting to know if they truly could contact the Afterlife, and he had attended séances now and then. Conan Doyle turned up at one such event, seeking contact with his lost son. It had been a fascinating evening.

And he did enjoy the Holmes stories very much. He’d even gotten Crowley to read a few.

He had gotten halfway through one of the two big boxes of Doyle material when Crowley sauntered down. He tended to sleep late and to be grouchy upon arising. Aziraphale found that a cup of cocoa often soothed him.

As soon as Crowley appeared, he magicked one up and held it out. “Good morning. Well, technically. It’s after eleven.”

Crowley grabbed the mug and downed the cocoa in one long gulp. “Mm.” He set the mug down and sprawled into a chair. He rolled his head, stretching his neck. Then he stretched his arms and yawned. “Don’t care much for mornings.”

“I _had_ noticed.”

“Oh, well, be like that then.” Crowley rose. “Think I’ll go home and water the plants.”

“Do sit down – I didn’t mean anything by it.” _Touchy_ in the morning, too, Aziraphale thought. And that was his main excuse for not sticking around _all_ of the time – caring for his houseplants.

Crowley sank back down in the chair. “Be a pity if they withered and died and it was the fault of an _angel_.”

“I’m not an angel.” Aziraphale had left Heaven’s employ, as Crowley had left Hell’s. He couldn’t truly stop being an angel, but neither did he truly _feel_ like one. At least, not as much.

“Whatever. Are you just going to look at those books all day? Nothing better to do?”

“I thought I’d finish this box of Doyle material, and then we can have a spot of lunch.”

Crowley glanced at the wall clock. “An hour?”

“More or less.”

“Fine. I can manage that.”

“You can help, if you like.” Aziraphale pushed the second box towards him. “That’s not all Doyle – it’s a mixed lot, but there should be quite a bit of Doyle items – could you go through and pick them out?”

“Work, work, work.” Crowley straightened and opened the box. As he took items out, he added, “No rest for the wicked.”

They worked together quietly for a while, and it was drawing near lunchtime when Aziraphale took the last book from his box. After flipping through it, he added it to his pile of “near fine” condition books.

Crowley had emptied his box, with rather messy piles around him on the floor and one large pile on the desk. “Doyle stuff,” he said, pointing to it.

“Ah. Excellent.”

“Time for lunch.”

They were just heading out the door when a rather tall, imposing fellow blocked their way. “Mr. Fell?”

“Yes?”

The man pulled out a wallet to show him police identification. “I stopped by to warn you about a rash of break-ins.”

“Oh, dear. Most unfortunate.”

“Several shops on this block and the next one over have been hit in the past week alone. We think it may be a gang – you may want extra protection until they are apprehended.”

“Yes, I see. Thank you, officer.” 

The fellow walked off. Crowley waved at his Bentley. “Shall we?”

“That was worrisome,” Aziraphale said as they got in. “I wouldn’t want anyone breaking into the shop. All those rare volumes.”

“A common thief wouldn’t know their value. More likely to just ransack the cash register, and that’s no problem. Fill it back up in a snap.”

“Still…perhaps he’s right about protection.” Aziraphale smiled as he had a reassuring thought. “Perhaps you should stay over every night until the miscreants are apprehended.”

“Nah.” Crowley headed off fast down the street. “I don’t see why. If someone breaks in, just miracle a few heavy books onto their heads.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You won’t stay?”

Crowley sped up even faster. “Been there three times this week. More than enough. Got to take care of the houseplants.”

He refused to discuss it any further.

#

And in fact, he didn’t return to the shop after lunch, but simply dropped Aziraphale off before zipping away, claiming he had “things” to do, and not to expect him until the morrow.

With a sigh, Aziraphale let himself in and walked back to the kitchen to fix a mug of cocoa. He had the distinct feeling that Crowley was pulling away from the idea of moving in. Not that he’d ever mentioned moving in to him directly, but surely his constant invitations to stay over were a clear sign of what he wanted? 

He took his cocoa upstairs to his sitting room and sank into an overstuffed armchair. He didn’t want to live alone. He’d done it for six thousand years. There was no doubt in his mind that Crowley returned his love, though he expressed it more in actions than in words. There was no good reason for them to live apart.

And it had to be here, in this comfortable, comforting flat. He would never have suggested moving in to Crowley’s place, not in a _million_ years. So cold and stark, so barren. He couldn’t imagine how his friend could enjoy being there. Did Crowley truly _like_ the soullessness of his home, or was it merely a façade? 

Aziraphale sighed. As much as he loved Crowley, and as well as he knew him, there were hidden depths there still that he couldn’t understand. 

He flicked his fingers at the sitting room fireplace. Flames sprang up, and he watched them dance as he drank his cocoa. Neither the coziness of the room, nor the warmth of the fire, nor the sips of warm liquid managed to sooth him.

_I don’t want to be alone_.

#

Sometime later he came to with a start. He rarely nodded off in the chair but somehow he had, and he groggily realized that he’d woken because of a noise.

There were banging sounds below. Crashing noises, and voices. Burglars!

Aziraphale cautiously opened the sitting room door and listened. He heard books being dropped. Not his precious books – the fiends!

Well, he would just magick the foul humans somewhere far away and unpleasant. Perhaps they’d like to visit Outer Mongolia.

As he tread softly down the stairs, he wished that Crowley were here. It sounded as if there were at least three of the miscreants, quite a lot to be snapping his fingers at all at once. Should he not try to confront them? Call the police instead?

Then he heard a huge crash as a bookcase toppled over. No, there was no time to lose – his books were in danger.

Aziraphale dashed down the final few steps and rushed inside the darkened shop. He was about to magick all the lights on when he felt someone come up quickly behind him. And before he could miracle the fellow away, something heavy struck the back of his head.

He collapsed on the floor, dazed. He struggled to rise, but a heavy foot struck his ribs, taking the wind out, and he fell again. 

A vague voice wafted through the air, saying, ‘”ere, Jimmy, use me blackjack.”

The next thing he knew, something very hard hit him again on his head, and all sense fled as he sank downward into darkness.

#

Light…softness…the sweet aroma of hot chocolate....

Aziraphale opened his eyes. He lay on the shop’s chaise, a flowered comforter over him and a pillow beneath his head, which seemed to have suffered no harm. Nothing hurt anywhere. Daylight streamed through the windows.

“Morning, sunshine.” _Crowley_.

Aziraphale pushed himself up to more of a sitting position. He rubbed the back of his head. “No bump there.”

Crowley crouched on an ottoman pulled up close beside him. He held out a mug of cocoa. “No. I made it all go away.”

Thank goodness nothing more deadly had occurred. “At least they didn’t have guns,” he said, voicing the concern aloud. If they had, he could very well have been discorporated. He shivered.

“Doesn’t bear thinking about,” Crowley replied. “It was burglars, I assume? What, exactly, were you trying to do? I came in here this morning to find you sprawled at the foot of the stairs, with blood on your head.”

“Sorry. That must have been unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” Crowley leaned over to grab Aziraphale’s arm. “ _Unpleasant_? You bloody well scared the hell out of me!” He softened his grip. “Well, not literally…but damn, Angel, _don’t do that to me again_.”

“Again?” _Oh_. Right. Crowley had thought him lost forever once, not merely discorporated, but extinguished entirely. “Sorry. I thought I could magick them all away.”

“Obviously, you couldn’t.”

“I was so worried about my books…I rushed in, not realizing one of them was waiting near the stairs behind me.”

“Bastards. If I ever find them—“

Aziraphale didn’t care about the burglars – he just wanted his shop to be all right. All that crashing and banging – they must have torn everything apart. He sat up even more to look around at the damage, fearing the worst.

He was amazed to find the bookshop as good as new. No shelves broken, no cases turned over, not a book out of place. He gasped, then looked at Crowley, who was smiling. “Did you -- well, of course, you must have done. _Thank you_.”

“My pleasure.” Crowley rose. “Would you care for a refill?” He took both their mugs back to the kitchen.

While he was gone, someone knocked on the front door. Aziraphale, feeling perfectly like his old self now, got up to answer it. 

The same police officer from the day before stood there. “Just thought you’d like to know that we caught a gang of burglars late last night, Mr. Fell.”

“Oh, that was quick work. _Most_ appreciated.”

“Everything all right at your shop, then?”

He supposed he could tell him about the break-in, but then how would he explain why there was no damage? “Yes, officer. Everything here is tickety-boo.”

The officer moved along. Aziraphale shut and locked the door and returned to the chaise just as Crowley returned with their mugs of cocoa. “Who was that?”

“The police. The burglars are in custody. We’re safe once more.” He took his mug and drank deeply.

“I could go down to the station and send them to Siberia for you.”

“No, no, it’s not necessary. Everything’s fine now.”

Crowley growled. “They _deserve_ to be in Siberia. I thought for a very long moment that they had killed you. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

_No_ , _thank Heaven_. Aziraphale shook his head. “I promise not to do anything that foolhardy again.” He had certainly been foolhardy in the past, but Crowley had always been there to save him. This time, he hadn’t. “Though, perhaps I need minding.” _Stay here with me_.

“Yeah, right. _Minding_. Come on Angel, why don’t you just say it? You’ve been wanting me to move in here. I’m not deaf.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Well, yes. I do. I have. Why not? And if you say ‘houseplants’, I shan’t speak to you again. For at least a day.”

“Of course it’s not because of the bloody houseplants.”

“Then why not?”

“Because…” Crowley looked down at the mug in his hands. “It’s because I might change…do you think I ever drink cocoa on my own? Or read a book without your prompting?” He nodded at Aziraphale’s comforter. “Or ever wrap myself up in a floral nightmare like _that_?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Did I say you had to do those things?”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Well, not in so many words…but being here all the damn time – it’s your _influence_ , your style, whatever you want to call it – there’s nothing of my _own_ here –“

“So bring something of your own here, then, you great dolt!” Honestly. 

“What?” Crowley paused. “Oh. You’d let me do that?”

Aziraphale knew their tastes did not exactly mesh, yet they had managed to be friends forever, despite that. It wasn’t the surface things that mattered, it was what lay beneath. “You can even toss out the antimacassars if you like.”

“The what?”

“The little doily things on the back of my armchairs.”

“Oh, yeah. Really?” Crowley looked thoughtful, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. It’s still a big change. I’m used to being in my own flat.”

Aziraphale decided not to push it. He’d _almost_ had him. But he didn’t want to insist, at the risk of pushing Crowley away. “Think about it, that’s all I’m asking.”

“All right.” Crowley stood. “Are you feeling peckish? It’s far past breakfast time. A spot of brunch?”

“Perfect,” Aziraphale replied.

#

Over the next few weeks, they continued as they had before, puttering around the bookshop together, eating a lot of meals out together, and sometimes Crowley stayed the night while sometimes he didn’t. 

Back to the _status quo_ , Aziraphale thought, a bit disappointed. 

And then one morning, a morning after a night when Crowley had _not_ been with him, Aziraphale wandered downstairs into the bookshop and gasped when he looked around.

There were _houseplants_ in his shop.

Several large philodendrons stood near each window. Beautiful, healthy plants that looked rather familiar.

He walked into his kitchen to find Crowley filling a watering can.

_This was it at last_. Aziraphale beamed. “Need any help?”

“Nah, I got this.” Crowley shut off the tap and headed out to the shop with Aziraphale right behind. 

He watched Crowley water the plants. “Are you still talking to them?” He knew that Crowley’s style of talking to plants involved a lot of terror and intimidation, and he didn’t fancy that, not here.

“Thought we could play them some Mozart instead.”

“Oh, absolutely. Much better.” Aziraphale went to his desk, where he had an old-fashioned record player. He selected a collection of sonatinas and put it on. As the music filled the room, he felt a warmth and happiness beyond compare. Crowley was moving in at last.

Then his glance fell on a newspaper on top of the desk. This morning’s edition of the _Times_ , to which he subscribed. Crowley must have brought it in. It was open to a back page, and Aziraphale noticed the article headline:

_Brand New Burglarly Gang Appears in Soho_.

Ah. Was that all this was about? Crowley was only worried about another break-in? Would he only stay until the new threat was over? He sighed. That wasn’t what he wanted, it was not what he imagined.

Crowley finished watering the plants and set the can on the desk. Aziraphale pointed to the newspaper article. “Is this why you’re here?” He couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice.

“Don’t want you getting coshed again.”

“I wasn’t planning on getting ‘coshed’ again, as you say,” Aziraphale said a bit tetchily. “I’ve upgraded the door and window locks, and I magicked up an alarm.”

“Oh. Good idea.”

“So don’t feel you _have_ to stay here only to protect me.”

Crowley looked at him. There was something in that look which Aziraphale had seen many times before – it was a potent mix of love and friendship with just a touch of exasperation.

“You’re right,” Crowley said. “I don’t have to stay here. Turns out that I _want_ to stay here.” He paused. “Doilies notwithstanding.”

“Damn the doilies!” Aziraphale reached out and grabbed Crowley before he could say another word, and embraced him tightly.

“There, there.” Crowley returned the embrace, arms wrapped tightly round him. Then he kissed Aziraphale on the forehead, and stepped back. “All right?”

Aziraphale released him, nodding. “Yes.” The wondrous melodies of Mozart swelled around him. “We can burn the things in the fireplace tonight, if you like. And the flowered drapes as well.”

“Keep the drapes,” Crowley replied. “They’re _you_.” He picked up the watering can and sauntered off to the kitchen, calling back, “And that’s why I’m here, Angel. _For you_.”

And so he moved in, and they burned the doilies, and the houseplants grew lush and happy to the strains of classical music.

###


End file.
